


The Bond of Grief

by stardustspirals



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Maeglin angst, canon character death, gore (minimal though), involving a body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 04:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1592345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustspirals/pseuds/stardustspirals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maeglin struggles to process his alienation from the Noldor, following Fingolfin's death. He begins to realize just how much damage his father has done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bond of Grief

King Fingolfin's death had reached them three days ago. Thorondor had brought the body himself to Turgon's feet, with a quiet condolence that was odd to hear from the mouth of a giant bird. Maeglin was vaguely surprised that Turgon's wailing wasn't heard from beyond the encircling mountains. Fingolfin's eyes were open--pale blue like the ice of the Helcaraxë that Aredhel had told Maeglin only a few stories of. The ice that Fingolfin had led them across. Maeglin could see the rope of his intestines dangling out, barely holding the other piece of his body together. Thorondor cradled both ends so gently in his talons. Turgon had fallen to his feet and curled up, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet and weeping so hard that Maeglin thought he might vomit. Maeglin's heart, usually more hardened to his uncle, softened at the sight of that, how how much Turgon's usual control had slipped. And yet his heart went out even more to Idril, who had never looked so afraid and insecure since Maeglin had met her. 

Maeglin himself was in shock. He felt nothing when he looked at Fingolfin, not at first. Well, first a faint sense of horror at the state of the body, and then pity for his uncle and cousin. But no attachment to the vacant face before him. His mother had spoken of her father on occasion, but somehow Maeglin hadn't pictured this face. It didn't feel real.

That gave way to anger, later, when the city began to mourn. Turgon was inconsolable--the strict control, the strong face he'd worn since Maeglin had known him, had cracked, and he'd broken down hard. Idril seemed listless and concerned for her father, doting on him as he dealt with the grief sickness. He'd clung to Maeglin, too, sobbing into his shoulder, staining his clothing with tears--a reversal of the way he'd held Maeglin following Aredhel's death. 

But the hours he spent with Turgon, holding a vigil over him with Idril, were spent dwelling on the disconnect from the rest of them, on the way he felt so little at his own grandfather's death. He didn't talk to her. It wasn't any of her concern. She couldn't answer his questions, and she couldn't lessen his growing sense of rage.

"You're not one of them." Maeglin could almost see his father's sour expression as the deep voice rang in his head. "I would sooner see you dead than living among them, as one of them."

And this was proof. He had not known his grandfather; he had not known his king. He did not share this bond with those around them, even the bond of grief. He had wept more for the loss of his cruel father, the one who had taken this from him, than he had for his beloved mother's father, for his king. He had not shed a single tear. He felt trapped outside a room where Noldor mourned, kept away by a thick black curtain. Suffocating like the darkness of Nan Elmoth could be. His father's darkness like a cloud to wrap around him and immobilize. 

Since he'd come here, he had realized his capacity for jealousy. Now, he felt himself envious even of suffering. But it was the suffering of Noldor, and he could never be one, no matter how he wore their clothing and spoke their language and held their blood in his veins. He could not be one, for the word of his father still ruled, though his bones had long been broken on the rocks below the tiered city. 

And at least now he could weep with them, though their tears were shed for reasons more noble than his.


End file.
